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poem and quote

i am singing to you
what spiteful chance steals unawares
why are the things that have no death
we were not many
under a spreading chestnut tree
my true love from her pillow rose
softly weeping
i saw god. do you doubt it?
beautiful, tragical faces
up to her chamber window
gloom
for i was a gaunt, grave councillor
day is done
she knows a cheap release

 



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